Chapter 7: The Closet

Philip's apartment was on the ninth floor of a glass building in the Seaport.

The brass key turned on the first try.

"I go first," Dane said quietly from three feet behind her. "Please."

"No. It's my fiance's apartment."

"It's not safe."

"Then stay at the door."

Iris went in and turned on her phone light.

The place smelled of cologne and cold takeout.

On the entry table sat a framed photo of the two of them in Paris.

She looked at it for a moment and turned it face down.

"Desk," Dane said. "Left drawer. Men like him lock one drawer and think it's enough."

She tried the left drawer.

It was locked.

Dane held out a thin steel pick without a word, handle first, and kept his hand extended until she took it.

The lock gave with a clean click.

Inside lay a gray prepaid phone, still in its packaging, and a receipt from a pharmacy in New Hampshire.

Iris turned on the phone.

There was one message in the sent folder.

*Room 1412. Come now. Alone. Iris.*

"That's the same text," she whispered. "He sent it from this phone and from mine."

"Take pictures. Don't touch more than you have to."

She was photographing the receipt when the front door lock clicked.

Dane's hand closed on her elbow.

It was the first time he had touched her since the morning in the hotel room, and he let go the second she went rigid.

"Closet," he said, barely audible, and pointed.

It was a walk-in, hung with suits.

They slipped inside and Dane drew the door nearly shut.

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